


a name is a prayer

by pissedofsandwich



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Choking, D/s undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hoshiumi Interview Light Novel Chapter, M/M, Marriage Proposal(s), Post-Time Skip, Rough But Loving Sex, Seriously Bendy Sex, Size Difference, Subspace, enthusiastic about denial, horniness all around but also sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: They both have a similar question.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 9
Kudos: 87





	a name is a prayer

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the warnings. i do not know why all the content i created for hrhs is exceedingly kinky (by my standards anyway). that being said, EVERYTHING IS CONSENSUAL (it is in fact enthusiastically expressed), hirugami just has a thing for being denied. please let me know though if i should tag something else.
> 
> japan's fight for [marriage equality](https://www.marriageforall.jp/en/marriage-equality/) inspired this.

"Do you think it's okay that I talked that much?" 

"Huh?"

"I mean, at the interview. It was supposed to be about you, you know. But I talked for most of it."

"I wanted you there."

"True."

"And you ended up talking a lot about me, anyway."

"... it's a little embarrassing, isn't it."

Kourai's trying hard to conceal his smile, Sachirou knows. There's a joke somewhere that he's not getting, somewhere between orchestrating their run-in with Akane so that it didn't look like they came in the same direction and letting Kotarou play with him as he talked endlessly about their high school years. "Is it?" Kourai says. 

Sachirou kicks his calves under the table. Much to his chagrin, Kourai simply retaliates by locking their feet together, restraining Sachirou's moves. He tries not to let his pout show. "That's not very nice," Sachirou says.

With Akane politely declining their invite for lunch, they were left to prepare lunch for themselves, both preferring home-cooked meals to restaurant take-outs. Sachirou wouldn't consider either of them a good cook, their skills limited to following recipes and putting different ingredients together, but what they enjoy from cooking is not necessarily the end product, anyway. It's the bonding they have over the stove, the satisfaction at being able to create something from scratch that is nutritious for the love of their life—and most importantly, knowing exactly what you put in your food. For Kourai, especially, who has to follow a strict diet even during the off-season, this is a must.

"Did you  _ intend  _ to embarrass me?" Sachirou demands.

Kourai's answer is lightning-quick—Sachirou's almost convinced it's instinctive. "Of course not," Kourai says. "I wanted you to be there. You were the most important part of my high school  _ and  _ professional volleyball career. I feel like it would be a disservice to you if I didn't invite you."

Sachirou ducks his head. That Kourai is a straightforward man is a fact about him that Sachirou is deeply fond of, but sometimes—it makes it hard to look at Kourai in the eyes. 

And Kourai knows it.

This is a competition, Sachirou realizes. He's lost. The surprising thing is that he doesn't mind it. 

"Is this what our relationship is going to look like? Seven months of distance, then the second you're back, you make it a point to always be sweet to me?" asks Sachirou, smiling.

Kourai frowns. "You do not like it?"

"Oh, I do.  _ Very  _ much. Please continue to be sweet to me," Sachirou chuckles. He twirls the fork in between his fingers, suddenly pensive. Kourai saved him, that is undeniable, but he forgets sometimes that he saved Kourai, too. With the way the limelight shines, he often loses sight of that.  _ But you are important,  _ he tells himself.  _ Kourai told you, so you must believe it.  _

"Why am I sensing a but?" 

"Well," Sachirou tilts his head. "Aren't you worried?"

"About?"

"How you might come off. Akane has no choice but to report that in an interview about  _ the  _ Hoshiumi Kourai, it's me, his former high school friend, who did most of the talking."

It's not the point that he wants to make. Kourai gives him time to collect his words. Still fiddling with his fork, Sachirou says, "What if Akane thinks we're dating?"

Kourai shrugs. "We are."

"Yes, but—" Sachirou sighs. "Nevermind."

Kourai bounces Sachirou's legs under the table, still caught in a tangle of four calves. "Don't 'nevermind' me. You should  _ always _ tell me what's on your mind."

Sachirou chances a look at Kourai's face. He smiles at the tentative look on face—he doesn't mince words, but that doesn't mean he's callous. "What if she writes us that way?" he says. "As boyfriends?"

"We are," Kourai says, in the exact same tone. It's probably his idea of humor.

"You wouldn't mind that?" Sachirou is astonished now. "Being… known? Going public?"

Kourai shakes his head. He pierces another vegetable, scrunching up his nose as he makes a thoughtful noise around a bite. "You think we overcooked the mushrooms just a little?" 

" _ Kourai-kun, _ " Sachirou fights the urge to bury his head in his hands. "Don't change the subject!"

"Sorry, sorry," Kourai laughs. He sets down his fork, leaning back in his chair so he could gaze right at Sachirou. "To answer your question," he reaches for Sachirou's hand, plucking the fork out of his grip and lacing their fingers together, "no, Sachirou, I wouldn't mind. In fact, I've… been wanting to do that for a while."

A soft "oh" escapes Sachirou's lips. He stares at their joined hands. Kourai's started rubbing tiny circles into the back of his hand, a habit for when he thinks Sachirou is nervous about something. He isn't, not really—in fact, he finds it a relief. The thought of finally claiming Kourai for himself, and having the whole country know it… 

He thinks about the ring he's kept inside the pocket of a jacket that he never wears, hanging inside the closet. Some of Kourai's off-season clothes (read: his ugly t-shirts and endless supply of athleisure) are in there too; when Sachirou moved, he made sure to keep a space empty for when Kourai came back. It was just a vague idea back then, half-hoping for a future they hadn't yet discussed, still afraid of the distance and the implications of their careers, but now that they've figured out a pattern, a routine—a habit—it takes form in front of his eyes. He imagines the ring around Kourai's finger, and has to stop because he doesn't want to tear up right now.

"Sachirou?" Kourai calls. "Do you… do you  _ not  _ want it? Don't worry, they won't publish the article without running it by me first. If you're not ready, I'll make sure—"

Sachirou leans over the table and shuts him up with a kiss. "No, dummy," he says, pulling at their joined hands. "I'm just emotional thinking about what this means," he looks up, shy but pushing through, "for our future."

Kourai smiles. It's uncharacteristically abashed. "Yeah," he picks up his fork again with the wrong hand, not wanting to let go of Sachirou. It makes Sachirou's heart swell. "I get what you mean."

*

It's predictable that they'd end up in bed, after the dishes and cleaning up are done. Sachirou moved into this apartment at the end of veterinary school, having received offers from several places near this building. It's a charming little one-bedroom with a bit of a leaky faucet problem, but Sachirou always feels content in it. The big windows in the living room probably help, providing natural light—probably what kept him sane, during the days he had to be holed up at home, unable to go out. 

His favorite thing about the apartment, though, is when Kourai is in it. 

His kisses are always unpredictable. Sometimes, Sachirou would be unsuspecting, doing chores or some other mindless mundane thing, and Kourai would come up behind him and pepper him with kisses on his shoulder. The press of their bodies would send Sachirou's senses going haywire, hot in a matter of minutes, and there'll be no resistance if Kourai wants to take him right there, in the middle of the kitchen or the living room. Then there are times, where Sachirou is wanting and desperate for it, Kourai would make him wait. Kiss him, but only lightly, until Sachirou has to beg for it. Only after the world  _ please  _ would Kourai take mercy on him. 

Right now, Sachirou can't tell where they're going. They're kissing with no consequences, no real purpose. They've been at it for what seems like hours—but in reality could've just been  _ minutes,  _ he is just dramatic about his kisses—and Kourai hasn't moved any lower than his neck. Usually, Sachirou would get impatient, buck his hips or try to touch Kourai's dick, tell him to  _ get on with it already,  _ but he's choked with emotions today, and he knows Kourai is, too. There's an almost tangible fondness falling over them ever since the revelation on the dinner table, affection and fondness flowing like waves, almost unbearably sweet. Kourai kisses him with something like nostalgia—it's probably poetic, the way thinking about the future makes them think about the past, but Sachirou only knows one poem right now and it's the touch of Kourai's lips on his. 

This is not unlike in high school, when he'd innocently tell his parents that they'd be studying in his room, so  _ please  _ do not disturb them. And they were studying, yes, but it was each other's bodies, sprawled out on his bed as they explored what worked and what didn't. The way Kourai's rutting into him but keeping his hands on his shoulder, the way Sachirou holds onto his back—it takes Sachirou back to the beginning. 

_ And now Kourai will be my end,  _ Sachirou thinks, heady with it.

"Are we going to dry-hump until we’re both spent?" Sachirou says, attempting for lighthearted—except for the way his voice is shaky. "Like in high school?"

"Depends," Kourai says. "You think you can come just from this?" He grinds down on him, dangerously slow, almost smug at the way Sachirou's mouth falls open. He does it again, harder this time. "Can you?"

"Probably," Sachirou gasps. "But I don't want to."

Kourai bends down, takes one ear in his mouth. "I don't want that either," he says. "What do you want?"

If Kourai insists on being a tease, then two can play this game. Sachirou reaches down, palming him through his jeans with light, feathery touches that he knows must not be enough. Kourai's maintaining his composure well, letting Sachirou touch him as he continues to kiss down his jaw, to the curve of his neck, and it— _ pisses _ Sachirou off. He wants Kourai  _ affected.  _ At the same time, though, another image passes in his head, of him being on his knees, Kourai's dick inside his mouth, still as Kourai continues to be unbothered. Maybe he's reading a book, or making a phone call—

_ Alright, file that for later, you whore,  _ the sensible part of his brain reminds him.  _ Deal with this first. _

"I'm thinking about that time at Fukurou's wedding," Sachirou says. Kourai perks up immediately, but Sachirou hides his satisfaction. Not too soon. 

"Hmm," Kourai says. "Which position?"

"The third one," Sachirou says. "When I was on my back, my head propped up on some pillows--"

"—your hands tied up with your stupid seagull-printed tie—"

Sachirou grins. It had been his last act of rebellion against his brother's continuing disapproval of his career choices, even though he was already a year into vet school. Kourai hated that tie. He hated it so much he used to bind him, and later, as a gag. "Yes," he coos, "and you fucked my throat so well that I worried everyone would know what we'd been doing if I spoke."

"Fuck, Sachirou," Kourai says. "Maybe you shouldn't speak. That mouth of yours—dangerous."

"I'm only this way with you," Sachirou promises. 

"Yes, you’d better," Kourai says. "You know what I want, though?"

"Hmm?"

"I want to fuck you," Kourai says, plain as day. And as if his mouth hasn't been spewing filth, Sachirou blushes. "Can I?"

And because Kourai started it, Sachirou drags it out, pretends he's thinking about it.  _ Now  _ Kourai looks affected. Perfect. He tells Kourai, “Yes.”

*

The first push is agonizing, but after Kourai fingered him open for an hour—not an exaggeration, he checked the bedside clock—it's almost welcome. Kourai goes slow because he's sweet and considerate like that, and Sachirou is endlessly thankful for the time he gives him to adjust. He'd overestimated his dick-taking abilities once; never again. Being fucked always starts out hovering near discomfort, the moment where it feels like it should be impossible for something bigger than three fingers to be sheathed fully inside, but once Kourai bottoms out, Sachirou’s overcome with this all-consuming feeling of being  _ full _ . It gets better when Kourai moves, not fully pulling out, then easing back in, just enough that Sachirou feels the stretch all the same and his breath stuck in his throat, pulse stuttering.

"Fuck," Kourai pants, "you're so  _ tight. _ "

"You've been away for  _ seven months _ ," Sachirou says. "I haven't—just fingers—"

"Should’ve gotten you toys," Kourai says as he rocks inside, almost like an afterthought. "Next time, when we call, I can watch you fuck yourself with them."

Sachirou's moans morph into a laugh, disbelief at this man between his legs. "Kourai-kun, since when are you so kinky?" he asks. 

"Since you," Kourai says, nuzzling into his chest. "You are insatiable." He presses his tongue on one nipple. Sachirou inhales sharply, squirming, but Kourai's hold on him is immovable. Sachirou loves that he's strong. "It's killing me." He closes his mouth around the red nub and  _ bites,  _ enough force to make him jolt, but not enough that it hurts the way Sachirou wants. He claws at Kourai’s back, the plea for more on the tip of his tongue when he feels Kourai slowly pull out. He scrambles to lock his legs behind Kourai’s back, desperate to keep Kourai inside when he harshly slams back in, the sudden fullness threatening to choke him. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he groans, gritting his teeth against the burn as Kourai gains momentum, bracing one hand against the headboard to protect the top of his head. 

Kourai’s grip on Sachirou's hip stings, almost like a brand. Fuck, he's so strong, and of course he would be, considering his line of work—but to be at the receiving end of this  _ power _ , all the speed and force of an internationally acclaimed spiker focused on his body, it makes Sachirou feel hot all over. Sachirou wants to tell Kourai this, how hot he feels that their size difference, once a defining trait of their relationship, means nothing when Kourai is on top of him, taking everything he could give. 

"Sachirou," Kourai sounds like he's strangled, like he's barely keeping it together himself. He lets go of his hips to grab onto the back of his knees, placing them gently on his shoulders. His ass is half-lifted, the new angle allowing Kourai to hit deeper than Sachirou thought was possible, and in the haze of pleasure he almost doesn’t register Kourai pushing at his legs, almost like he’s trying to fold him. “Can—can I?” he asks, in a voice rougher than Sachirou had ever heard from him. 

Oh, oh. He wants to let go. 

Sachirou moans. "Yes,  _ yes,  _ please—green, green, it's green—"

"Good," Kourai murmurs, pleased as he continues to push,  _ push  _ until his knees hit the pillow, bracketing his head. He can’t believe the way his ass is fully off the bed, supported only by the surge of Kourai’s hips. 

"Kourai-kun," he gasps, straining to maintain this position. Unlike his boyfriend, who is at the peak of human fitness, Sachirou has to face the fact that he has not been working out. "L-let up, a little—"

"If you want to stop," Kourai says, "you know your color." 

Like hell is he going to stop, not when Kourai’s just barely grazing that one spot that’s supposed to make him see stars. Kourai takes his silence as affirmative, and grins. “See, you don’t want to.”

Sachirou shakes his head. “I just—I just need—”

"You know, Sachirou," Kourai says, leaning close enough to kiss him, "sometimes I think you beg just so you can hear me deny you."

Something Sachirou didn’t know he had snaps inside him. He’s thinking,  _ yes, make me work for it, split me in half, I can take it,  _ but what he lets out of his mouth is, “No, no, please, I’m not as flexible as I used to be—hurts—” He’s hoping Kourai understands what he truly  _ means _ , but there’s never a single ounce of doubt in him when it comes to Kourai, sweet, accommodating Kourai, who knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. 

"You can," Kourai denies, emphasizing this by pressing his knees further into the pillow, "you  _ can,  _ you don't want me to get a spreader bar for you, don't you?" Oh, fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ Sachirou’s lightheaded just at the thought of it. He thinks to ask Kourai,  _ how do you know? How do you know me so well, that you discover what I want before I even know I want it?  _ But his mind is cloudy with the idea of being helpless under Kourai’s hands, breaking and unbreaking his body just for this boy who loves him so much. This boy who’s so good to him, he feels like he could die. 

"That's it," Kourai presses a soft kiss on his temple. "That's it, good boy. Can I trust you to keep this position?"

His thighs are beginning to cramp, but Sachirou nods frantically. He wants to be good, he wants to do anything Kourai wants him to. He keeps them spread even as he can feel them shaking with the strain, even when Kourai takes his hands off, Sachirou replaces them with his own to hold them in place. Kourai straightens his back, leans back as if admiring a work of art. Sachirou realizes how he must look, both legs by his head, exposed for Kourai to feast his eyes on. Yet he feels strangely content, like there’s a fog in his head that dulls everything else but the pleasure. 

Kourai licks his lips. He places one hand on the top of his head, the other on his neck. It feels like a promise to protect, and he can only melt into the touch. The fog in his head thickens when Kourai’s fingers press on the sides of his neck. Leaving a soft kiss that Sachirou barely registers on his temple, Kourai says, “Let me take care of you.”

And then the fog swallows him whole.

*

When he comes to, he is in a bathtub. 

His senses wake up in slow succession; first, he feels the warmth of the water on his skin, then the sound of water sloshing, and finally, finally, his sight returns. In front of him, haloed by the overhead lights, Kourai is watching him closely, a small smile beginning to creep up his face. He's no longer naked, but dressed in a soft pair of sweatpants and an oversized grey sweater. Sachirou blinks twice. He looks like home.

“Hi,” he tries to say, but his voice is too scratchy. Kourai is on his side at once, bringing a cold glass of water that Sachirou isn’t too concerned about yet to try and figure out just where it’s from. He sips a little from the rubber straw, touched that Kourai remembers to keep the metal ones away from him, and leans back against the tub. 

“How are you feeling?” Kourai asks, placing the glass on the sink. 

Sachirou hums. “Like I’m swimming through honey.”

“You’re not out of it fully just yet,” Kourai mutters, half to himself. “It’s okay, just relax, okay? I got you.” He’s showering kisses on his hair, which is wet—he vaguely remembers his scalp being scrubbed clean, but he can’t be sure. He’s living inside a pudding house right now. 

Turns out, it’s not so easy to relax in a bathtub when you’re 190 centimeters tall. His feet end up dangling out of the tub, and Kourai has to help him wash them with a wet cloth. It occurs to him to make a joke about feet fetishes, but he’s too comfortable to bother with opening his mouth. His legs still feel achey, but the warm water makes him feel loose and put back together at the same time. It’s the best feeling.

“You slipped really hard into subspace today, Sachirou,” Kourai says.

“Mm-hmm,” Sachirou says. “I like it. I feel all floaty.”

“You did so good, Sachirou,” Kourai kisses the ridge of his foot, soft. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I  _ am  _ good.”

“Yes, yes, you are.”

“You were good too,” Sachirou says. “You knew exactly what I wanted.”

“Only because it’s what I want too.”

“Sap.”

“Honest.”

His body feels light all over. There’s a contentment that he’s never felt before seeping into his bones. His mother told him when he announced his departure from volleyball that she named him  _ Sachirou  _ so he can be happy; at the time, Sachirou thinks it’s her own way of letting him go on his way. But he’s convinced now that it was a prayer. What else would’ve brought Kourai to him? A man like him doesn’t just show up without God willing. 

And oh, does He will it. 

Suddenly, he is struck with the best idea. 

“Kourai-kun,” he says, the urgent tone in his voice deliberate. Kourai sits up, alert. 

“Sachirou? Do you need anything?”

“Yes,” Sachirou says. “I need you to do something very, very important to me.”

Kourai kneels at the side of the bathtub, holding Sachirou’s hands in his. “Yes. Anything.”

“In my—our—closet, there’s this ugly Uniqlo leather jacket. You’d know because I’ve never worn that. Actually, it’s one of my most regrettable fashion purchases,” he sighs. “Go look into the side pocket. You should find a box.”

Kourai raises his eyebrows. “... okay,” he rises to his feet, “is that all?”

“Yes,” Sachirou nods. “Wait, no! One more thing! And this is super, super important. Actually, this is the most important part. So you have to promise me you’ll do it.” He sticks out his pinky finger. “ _ Promise me.” _

A laugh escapes Kourai’s lips like he just can’t help it. “Alright,” he twists their pinky fingers together. “Promise.”

“Do not look inside.”

Kourai gapes. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Sachirou nods seriously.

“Alright,” Kourai says, cautious like he’s sure he’s a part of some elaborate plan. Sachirou considered doing grand gestures, really, a volleyball-themed goose chase or a ballroom-style surprise proposal, but—today feels right. He sinks a little deeper into the tub, swinging his legs crossed, and imagines how  _ surprised  _ Kourai would be to find a ring inside. They probably shouldn’t make their proposal a competition, but Sachirou is winning. He is so sure of this. Kourai will be so—

“Sachirou?”

He resurfaces, giddy to ask Kourai those three little words. 

Except Kourai’s already on one knee, looking up at him. In his hands, a velvet box—it’s not the one he keeps inside his jacket pocket, because it’s blue with rounded edges. One hand is behind his back, and when he brings it to the front, he’s holding Sachirou’s box—red, tied with a gold bow. Sachirou’s stomach flips. 

“So,” Kourai grins. “It looks like we both have the same idea.”

“How—how long have you been…?” 

“Six months. You?”

Sachirou rests his head on the edge of the tub. “Three.” The smile Kourai flashes him is blinding. “Oh, I just  _ know  _ you must be thinking something like, 100 points or something. Yes, Kourai-kun, you win.”

“I get to marry you,” Kourai shuffles closer so that they’re face to face. “How am I not winning?”

“You haven’t even asked me.”

“ _ You  _ bought a ring. I think that must mean you want to marry me, too.”

“God,” Sachirou laughs. “You’re right. I want to marry you, Kourai.” He presses their foreheads together, breathing in. “I want to marry you so bad.”

“I want to marry you, too,” Kourai whispers back. 

Sachirou throws his head back and laughs, deep from his chest.  _ What’s in a name?  _ he thinks, staring at the way Kourai gingerly unearths the ring from his blue box, presenting it to Sachirou with a flourish.  _ It’s happiness,  _ he answers for himself, giving Kourai his right hand to adorn. His hand is wet, but Kourai doesn’t seem to care, slipping it on with the confidence of a man standing on a podium, waiting for his gold medal. 

“It’s so pretty,” Sachirou says, holding it up to the light. And of course it fits just right.

“It’s white gold,” Kourai explains, “with brown topaz. Because you once told me that you thought your brown eyes were boring, and I want you to see that brown is actually one of the prettiest colors.”

Sachirou’s hand goes to his chest, surprised to find it still alive and beating. “So, how many times are you planning to make my heart stop today, Kourai?” he says. “My turn, come on. I wanna put my ring on you.”

“Of course,” Kourai chuckles, handing the red box over. 

“It’s not comparable in luxury,” he says as a preambule, “because unlike some people, I am not one of the highest-paid athletes in their generation.” He ignores Kourai’s little ‘hey!’ and soft jab to his shoulder. He opens the box to reveal the ring underneath—a sterling silver, dipped in yellow gold, with a single pearl held up with four tiny prongs. “My end and beginnings,” he reads out the inscription.

He slides it on Kourai, and just like that, they are engaged.

*

“So, I think we need to re-register Kotarou’s certificate.”

Kourai raises his eyebrows. It’s past sunset now, and they’re lounging in the living room, enjoying each other’s presence with trashy TV playing in the background. Said dog, who is curled up on Sachirou’s lap, lifts an ear at the sound of his name, but reacts no further. They have claimed the comfy three-seater sofa for themselves, which Sachirou occupies horizontally with the dog cuddled up to his side, leaving Kourai on the lonely one-person chair, looking on enviously. 

It’s a typical day in their book, except they’re both engaged. It’s so new, but it feels like they’ve been in this forever. Maybe that’s what people mean when they say written in the stars; it’s all planned, so all they have to do now is get the cogs working. Mundane, yet monumental. 

“Why?” Kourai asks.

“He needs a name change,” Sachirou muses, scratching the back of his dog’s ears. “How do you think Hoshiumi Kotarou sounds?”

Kourai makes a thoughtful noise. “I think Hirugami Kotarou still sounds better,” he says. 

Sachirou rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying at—” He stops at the look on Kourai’s face, realizing the implications. “Wait. Wait,” he sits up, supporting himself on one elbow, “you mean—”

“I need to talk with your brother, too, probably—not looking forward to that,” Kourai shudders. “The press is probably going to need to find a way to refer to me that won’t confuse me with Captain Hirugami…” 

Sachirou feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. “So, you’re saying…”

Kourai grins at him. “How’d ya like me taking your last name?”

**Author's Note:**

> direct all roasts to [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tinysriasih) or [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.qa/tinysriasih) or the comment section below.


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